


Pink Camellias

by TC (thecollective)



Series: till the end of the line [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Presents, Cas tries to woo Dean, Dean ships Stucky, Dean's Birthday, Ficlet, Flowers, Fluff, Gift Giving, Longing, M/M, OFC - Freeform, Sam Ships It, Sam is a Slytherin, Text Messages, pop! vinyl dolls, socially awkward cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas buys Dean a birthday present. Dean doesn't know what to think of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Camellias

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C_Diva (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> Wrote this ficlet for Dean's birthday...oops it's a day late. This loosely follows "Nightingale" but can be read as a standalone. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> For Diva: Consider this a ridiculously late Christmas present. (and look, I CAN write fluff!)
> 
> I do not own Supernatural. I make no profit from this (other than your kudos).

His phone buzzed, but he chose to ignore it. For now. It was very irritating, the constant rattling and jostling in his coat pocket, but Sam had told him that it was polite to keep one’s phone on silent while in a public setting. Like the plant nursery he was currently combing through, looking for something for Dean. Flowers. Sam said flowers was the best way to apologize to someone you care about. But which ones? He picked up a bunch of white ones. White carnations, if he remembered the English name for them correctly. 

“Those mean ‘innocence’ or ‘pure love,’” said a voice from behind him. 

Cas turned around to see a middle-aged woman standing in the middle of a row of subtropical plants, clutching a freshly-potted fern in her arms. 

“Oh,” he said. “That’s not exactly the sentiment I wish to portray through the gift of flora.” 

The woman put the fern down on the cemented walkway, then brushed molecules of excess soil onto the front of her jeans. “What sentiment are you trying to portray?” she asked. Her name tag labelled her as “Melissa.” 

That niggle of humanity that still existed, thrumming through his vessel, intertwining with the stolen Grace, had him resisting answering her question, feeling slightly embarrassed that he did not know which flowers to purchase. He knew, however, that he’d never find what he needed without her help, and that, if left by himself, he could easily buy Dean flowers that meant fickleness or animosity or indifference. He could picture Dean’s face, his bottom lip protruding just a bit more than his top, as he would try not to laugh at Castiel’s predicament. “Flowers?” he could imagine Dean saying, “First dolls, now flowers? Are you trying to _woo_ me, man?” 

“Um,” Cas told Melissa, “I do not know what I need.” 

She nodded. Castiel assumed that he was not the first patron to be lost in the aisles of perennials. “Okay,” she said, “Well, who are you buying for?”

“A friend.”

“Special occasion?”

Castiel paused. The flowers were meant as an apology, a replacement for the gift that Dean did not enjoy. But what if Dean also did not like apology flowers? “A birthday,” Castiel said at last. “It’s for a friend's birthday.” 

“Well,” Melissa said, “Roses are very popular for birthdays, although they do have a certain romantic connotation.”

“No,” Cas said. “Dean does not like roses.” Dean had once told him that roses felt like the end of the world, like death, destruction, and apocalypse. Castiel did not understand how a flower could evoke such a response, but there was more to humanity than the angel had yet figured out. 

The woman arched one eyebrow. It reminded Castiel of Gabriel. “Alright,” she said, drawing out the vowels. “Why don’t we have a look around. You point out which flowers you like and I’ll tell you what they mean?” 

Castiel found this acceptable. He pointed to a vibrant pink flower shaped like a star. “What is this one called?”

The woman’s brown eyes glowed with mirth. “That is an azalea. In the Chinese culture, it represents womanhood.” 

Not a good choice for Dean. He pointed at a plant with white trumpet-shaped flowers. “This is a lily, correct?” he asked her. 

The woman nodded. “Yes, it’s an Easter lily. It represents the Virgin Mary. Is your friend Catholic?”

Dean remembered the priest’s disguise that resided in the trunk of the Impala. “Occasionally,” he replied. He moved down the aisle, passing by any white or yellow flowers. He noticed some flora with petals that were so purple they almost appeared black. “What are these?’ he asked. 

“Petunias,” Melissa replied, standing just to his left. “Those are tricky. Most people take them to mean resentment or anger. Probably not a good choice for a birthday present.” She sighed. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong. Tell me, why do you want to buy your friend flowers?”

“It is his birthday. Gifts are customary.”

“Well, then why do you want to buy flowers that _mean_ something?”

Castiel thought of the past few months, of the quick stab of grief he still felt whenever he thought of Dean’s death at the hands of Metatron, of the months Dean had spent with a warped and corrupted soul thrumming inside of him, of the black eyes that still haunted the Winchesters' and Castiel’s dreams. Then he thought of a night before any of that had happened, of Dean's dreams, of tangled arms and legs, of Dean’s vivid fantasies of men with metal arms, of Dean whispering _Castiel_ over and over and over. That night, he’d known his Grace was fading, and he hadn’t expected to see Dean’s next birthday. It didn’t matter that Dean didn’t remember the dream, Cas swore to himself, in fact, it was better that he didn’t. 

“Sir?”

Castiel was startled out of his thoughts by the woman’s voice. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if he knows they mean something,” the angel admitted, “I will know they do.”

The woman smiled at him again, and Castiel recognized it as pity. “I’ve been there,” she said. “Unrequited love is tough.” She beckoned him to follow her down an aisle to a large collection of shrubs. She hoisted up a plant that had quite large blooms, twelve centimeters, if Castiel estimated their size correctly. “This is a pink camellia,” she said. “I think it’s what you need.”

“What does it mean?” Castiel asked her. 

“Longing,” she replied with that same smile. Perhaps it was empathy Castiel was sensing from the woman. 

“Longing,” he said slowly, the vowel dragging out its diphthong far longer than it should have. 

“Longing,” Melissa repeated. 

“How much?” Castiel asked. 

“For you, $15,” she said. 

Castiel handed her the money and she walked away with the plant to box it up for transport. His phone buzzed again in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a number of text messages from Sam. 

Melissa came back a few minutes later with his boxed up camellia. “Here you are,” she said. “Good luck with your friend.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel said, “I greatly appreciate your help.”

As he left the plant nursery, he blessed all the flora he passed by. The coldest parts of winter were yet to come, and perhaps the sun might shine a little more warmly now. He carefully put the boxed camellia on the floor of the passenger side of his vehicle. 

As he drove back to the bunker, he took every corner very carefully, so that the plant would not tip over. He wondered what Dean would say about the plant. The bunker was devoid of greenery, and Castiel could pass it off as an attempt to “make it homey,” as Sam might say. It was very confusing, not knowing when or where or how to give Dean physical representations of his feelings. He’d thought that the two Funko figures of the American captain and the metal-armed assassin might be enough, but perhaps not. Not for the last time, Castiel wished that humanity had come with a manual. As an angel, he’d always had a brother of superior rank to guide him throughout the centuries. Those times were past, he decided, and perhaps being human meant you had to do it on your own. If he were to live amongst humanity indefinitely, perhaps he needed to do the same. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket again. Cas pulled the vehicle to the side of the road, remembering the billboard a few miles back that said “DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE.” He assumed that this was a civil ordinance. 

His phone told him that he had a text from Dean. “The pie is good,” Castiel read aloud. His brow furrowed. Of course the pie was good. It was Dean’s favorite after all. 

Cas put his phone away and began driving again. He cast a glance at the boxed camellia and decided that he’d keep it for himself.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. <3
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/dearcollectress) or on [Tumblr](http://dearcollectress.tumblr.com).


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